Utopia: The Hour of Love
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Dr. Gregory House is lured into a world of intrigue in 19th Century Paris, where he faces the greatest tragedy of his life. No slash. AU fic. Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this story idea came to me.

**It's an AU fic, taking place in late 19th century France.** Now, I can really write romantic friendship and not have it be unrealistic for the time period -- so though your mind may wander to slash when you read this, it is not intended to be slash, nor would it have been thought of that by anyone in this time period.

I know I've gotta update **Cotton Candy Baby **like hell, so I don't know what my updating will be like with this story... Or hell, if anyone's actually going to read it. But we'll see.

**Warning**: There will be angst and some romance but not between males.

**Personal Disclaimer**: I'm sorry if at any point, my historical details aren't perfectly accurate. There is a massive amount of research to be done for this story, and it's not all easily found online. Also -- if any of you have particular information concerning this time period and would like to share, I'd appreciate that. You can email me or send me a private message.

Please read and review! Thanks.

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Chapter One: _An Introduction to Madness_

* * *

Dr. Gregory House stepped out of his carriage and into the wet street with a dark look in his eyes. It would rain again soon. He could smell it in the air and see the storm gathering above him, as he handed a tip to the driver. He pulled his overcoat tighter around him, grimacing at his surroundings as the carriage drove away. The silver arch of his cane -- an eagle frozen in preparation for takeoff -- glinted under his hand, as he set out toward his left. 

It was not his first time in Paris. He had spent a year here in his 20s, a personal time of light and unlimited possibility. He was a different man now, some twenty years later, and Paris had changed too, it seemed. He had never seen weather like this the last time he was here. Rain, yes. Storms, of course. But never this heaviness, this gloom that was seeping into the stones themselves.

Maybe it was just him.

No one stopped him as he hobbled along. No one tried to peer into his face. He kept his head down, the brim of his hat shading those eyes that still haunted a person or two in this world, and he did not mind the thunderous rumbling that seemed to protest his arrival. He glanced up at every intersection, waiting for the right street name to appear. He knew his destination was not far.

Four blocks from where he stopped the carriage, he arrived at _L'Oeil Rouge, _a hotel built almost forty years ago. It's red roof, turned drab with time, gleamed with old rain. It's name sign creaked as it swung high above the double door, a heavy wood. No light could be seen in the windows yet, though it was almost dark outside, and no one lingered outside the place at all. He sighed to himself from across the street, before stepping off the curb and approaching.

He frowned as he slipped into the lobby, which was dimly lit and heavy with smoke. Expensive rugs, lamp shades, sofas, and chairs all made it a true, French affair. The clerk smiled at him with an intoxicated glint in his eye, but House didn't return the gesture, as he limped toward the desk.

"I need a single room, third floor," he grumbled in French, after nodding his head at the clerk.

"Certainly, sir." The clerk turned to the wall of keys and picked one out without much deliberation. "And how will you be paying, sir? A single is 50 francs a night."

House dug into his coat pocket and pushed a wad of money toward him. The clerk smiled.

"Thank you. Here is your key; it will be room 53, right up those stairs." He pointed to House's left, where the shape of a staircase undoubtedly waited at the far end of the hall. House pursed his lips, key in hand.

"I'm expecting a trunk to arrive shortly," he said, without looking at the clerk.

"It will be held at the desk, until you inquire after it," he said coyly. House glanced at him.

"Thank you."

He swept away, toward the stairs, catching the eye of one of the resident whores. She was leaning against a wall in her black corset and thigh-high stockings, while a faceless man cooed to her some indistinguishable nonsense. She winked at him sensually, and he continued on his way.

The stairs creaked under his feet and cane, and he winced with each step, dragging his bad leg along. Every couple of stairs, he stopped to rest for a moment, panting with the pain. He would have to take his drugs once locked inside his room, which would have been on the first floor, if not for the unspoken fact that the farther up one was in this hotel, the less likely one would be disturbed or found out.

The whores lived on the fourth floor, where no one ventured except the drunken local men with money, who came only at night. If not told beforehand, first-time customers might not realize the existence of that fourth floor, despite the sightings of it's tempting occupants. Fourth floor room keys were not kept at the front desk, not even pegs for those keys. The whores alone kept them, coming and going when they pleased. During the day, they may dress themselves as ladies to go out, but once darkness fell, they became pleasure-bearers to anyone who came calling.

House, even in his younger days as a French doctor's apprentice, never liked these women who reeked of powders and perfumes. Their eyes were almost hidden behind their black rings of makeup, and their lips were too decadent as dark-colored pouts. Every smile and every look was a plead for money in exchange for their used bodies, which he always knew must be walking paradises for all the incurable diseases that had been rampaging through Paris even before Napoleon's time. He would rather keep his good health.

He leaned heavily against his room's door, once he reached it, his hand almost shaking where it gripped his cane. He panted, his blue eyes cracking open to shine at a woman who was dressed like a lady but regarded him with a whore's smile. She passed him by, descending the stairs with detestable ease. He would have banged at the door angrily, if he had been sure of solitude.

Instead, he pushed the key into it's hole and forced himself inside.

The bed was unmade, but he didn't care. He collapsed into it, heaving with the pain in his leg, sweat coating his face. An oil lamp burned on top of the wall shelf, and he almost laughed at the stupidity of leaving it unattended prior to his arrival.

The room smelled of the same cigarette smoke that had clouded the lobby. A brick red, Oriental rug covered most of the floor. The windowpane was water-stained and dirty, while a tapestry hung from the ceiling against the wall nearest the bed. As for the bed itself, it's mattress sat in an old, wood frame and was covered with a set of linen sheets and a heavy blanket. Below the wall shelf, which held a disorganized collection of French books and miscellaneous trinkets, was a dresser drawer. A wardrobe and mirror hovered in the corner next to the door and across from the bed, and a small table sat bare next to the bed.

House sighed, as the pain began to decline from a burning sensation to it's usual throbbing. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his bottle of laudanum. He carried more in his luggage but always had a canteen of it with him, in his coat. He unscrewed the cap quickly and tipped his head back to drink some. The instant relief flowed into him even before he was done swallowing.

"Dr. House?"

He recognized that voice which came after a lenient knock on his door.

"Are you there?"

He almost smiled. For that voice, he would suffer to get up again. He tucked his bottle back into his coat and pushed himself to his feet, wincing as pressure was put on his leg again.

When he opened the door, the most welcome sight in the Western Hemisphere greeted him -- the boyish smile and glittering eyes of Dr. James Wilson.

"James," House said, the first sign of warmth creeping into his voice since he departed from America.

"House," said James, with the same tone. He let down the trunk he had been pulling along and embraced the other doctor, with no regard for who might see them in the doorway. They held to each other for a long moment and parted reluctantly.

"Is that my trunk?" House asked, eyeing the luggage on the floor, next to Wilson's feet.

"I saw it being delivered just as I arrived in the lobby. I thought it only proper to bring it up. God knows you would hurt yourself trying it pull it up two flights of stairs. And the French can't be bothered to do it."

House smiled and stepped aside, letting Wilson pick up the trunk's handle again and pull it into the room.

"How did you know I was here? I never sent word," said House, closing the door.

Wilson shrugged. "I've been waiting impatiently for days. I decided to come down here and inquire after you. Glad I did."

He smiled, his hands on his hips and the trunk at his feet.

"Is this really all you brought with you?"

House glanced from the trunk to Wilson. "I never have need for a lot of excess things. I only brought my medical kit besides my clothing."

"And laudanum," Wilson said, knowingly. House only gave a discreet nod.

"How has your leg been?" Wilson asked in a suddenly urgent tone, sitting next to House on the bed.

"Oh, the same, really," he said, rubbing at it idly. Wilson's look of concern persisted, waiting for more information. "I manage it as I can, try to stay off it when I can."

"I haven't stopped looking for a solution, you know," said Wilson. House looked at him, and Wilson took his shoulder in one hand. "Never."

House offered a weak smile and a nod. "Thank you. It -- it's terribly wonderful to see you again."

Wilson's smile returned. "I can't begin to say how much I agree. I have missed you a great deal, these years in France. Your letters have kept me from being too lonely."

"Yours have been one of my few joys," House confessed.

"Oh, I hope not."

"Yes, it's true. I've been swamping myself in work, as usual. No company I enjoy nearly so much as yours."

"No ladies?" Wilson asked hopefully.

"None."

And Wilson knew not to take that subject any further. He had always hoped House would one day move on from privately grieving the loss of his youth's love -- Miss Warner -- but House had obviously not.

"If you're up to it, I would propose dinner in one of the restaurants nearby," he said next. House sighed.

"I don't know," he replied. "I'm tired, and my leg doesn't particularly like those stairs."

"Why on earth did you get a room on the third floor?"

"In this hotel? I would think you would know."

"Why this hotel?"

"For the same reason I chose the floor."

"The French aren't nearly as invading as Americans, you know."

"Annoyance is a universal quality, Wilson."

Wilson did not answer but looked at his friend instead. A few more wrinkles touched House's face from the last time Wilson had seen him five years ago. His friend was tired and worn, and Wilson felt a compelling urge to care for him now, though he knew not in what ways he possibly could. He wished with his whole heart that he could make House happy again, wished that he could change his dearest friend back into the man he was when Wilson had first met him.

He smiled sadly to himself, as House sat with his head in his hands and his eyes closed. Wilson remembered this feeling -- this helplessness. It was part of the reason why so many had abandoned House long ago. But despite the gnawing it left in his chest, Wilson couldn't even fathom leaving House. He had never loved anyone the way he did this man -- this aging, tired, miserable man. He had spent the last five years in a constant state of emotional hills: quiet bliss when he received a letter, impatience and loneliness while he waited for another one. And he had written his own letters to House with the utmost care and intimacy -- hundreds of "I always recall when we last were together" and "Paris is glum today, and I feel that her skies know how my heart feels in your absence."

He had saved every letter from his most beloved friend, kissing them tenderly in his solitude and keeping the newest one always in his inner breast pocket, so that he may read it over and over until a new arrived. Reading them always left him smiling with an emptiness inside him that no amount of words from across the sea could ever fill.

And now at last, when House was here again, the helplessness returned to Wilson, replacing the longing.

"I can send for food," he offered quietly.

"That would be good," House replied.

Wilson rose from the bed and strode to the door, hesitating for a moment and turning toward House again.

"I'll hurry back," he said.

"I'm not going anywhere," House answered. Wilson pursed his lips and opened the door, but House never lifted his head.

* * *

Wilson hurried down the stairs, as dusk swept over Paris, and a few of the prostitutes were already emerging. His carriage had waited outside the hotel, and he climbed back in with a brisk order to the driver. The carriage took him several streets away and stopped in front of a house with a light in every window. He was let in through the main doors and bolted up the stairs to top floor, where he knocked urgently on the door to the room on the right side of the house, in the front. 

"Who is it? James?"

A woman opened up, her chestnut curls hanging wildly around her face and her breasts cupped in her corset. She spoke in her native French, and he answered her likewise.

"James, what is it? It's Wednesday --"

"I know. I came for food. My friend is here from America."

"The one you have been talking so much about?"

Wilson nodded, as she peered over her bare shoulder at him with her big eyes. She sashayed toward her fireplace, the ruffles of her skirts half dragging along the rug. The familiar apartment smelled of her exotic perfume and spices that he knew were still on her hands.

"I have some soup. It is not much, but you may take the pot, as long as you bring it back. Let me pour myself a bowl."

He stood anxiously, as she ladled some of the pea soup into a porcelain bowl on her table.

"I have some bread I bought in the market today, also," she said, wrapping the rolls in a kerchief and tucking it on top of the pot's lid.

"Thank you, Soleil," he said. "Thank you."

She smiled at him, as she handed him the meal. "I will have to meet this friend of yours."

He nodded, as her slid up his chest to his shoulder, and she kissed him with mounting fervor.

"Will you reward me for this?" she asked.

"Yes, I promise. Tomorrow night."

She smirked. "I will wait impatiently, Dr. Wilson."

He kissed her neck, as she guided him to the door. He almost wished he could stay with her but not quite. Not when House was here.

"I'll come to you tomorrow," he murmured, breaking away.

She lurked in the almost-shut door, watching him disappear around the corner, listening to his footsteps fade down the stairs. She smirked.

* * *

James sent the carriage away this time, as he made his way through the whore-filled lobby and up the stairs, coughing in the midst of the smoke that didn't dissipate until well into the second floor. He hoped the soup had not already grown cold, as he carefully crept up to the third floor. 

He and House ate quietly, sharing the bare bedside table. The laudanum had made House sleepy, aside from the exhaustion had naturally felt because of the day's travel, and he ate impatiently, wanting to finish so that he may go to bed.

"Decent soup," he remarked, as he finished. "Where did you get it?"

"One of the restaurants nearby. I visit often, and they had the courtesy of sending me along with something."

House left the bowl and spoon and got up to shed his coat and vest.

"Will you stay?" he asked Wilson, as he took off his shoes. His friend smiled gently.

"Would you have me stay?"

"Do you need ask?"

"It's been a long time."

House pulled his leg up onto the bed and curled up, sighing into his pillow. He opened one bleary eye at Wilson, who decided to give in and took off his own coat and vest and shoes. He climbed into bed from the end, sliding next to House with his back nearly against the wall.

"Someone needs to put out the lamp," he whispered.

"Leave it. The French let them burn all the time."

Wilson pulled the sheets and blanket up to cover them both and flung his arm over House, pressing his face to his friend's back in his hunger for this old companionship.

"I have missed you, Dr. Wilson," House murmured with his eyes closed.

Wilson smiled against House's shirt.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: At this time, has deleted 5 of my stories and suspended my account. All stories were posted long ago and all had lyrics in them. I'll only be able to post this in a week or so, when my suspension is over. This has made me really angry.

Just a reminder: **This is an AU fic set in 19th Century France**. Romantic friendship did flourish at this time, so that is the way I write the House and Wilson. It is not intended to be slash.

There is also some Wilson/OC romance, just to warn you.

Please read and review. Thanks.

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_Chapter Two_

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House groaned awake, sure in his subconscious that is must be an ungodly hour. He refused to open his eyes at once, but he was indeed awake, with his leg stiff and throbbing. He wanted to curse himself for sleeping in the same position all night, which always seemed to pain him more than moving did, but when he recalled where he was and with whom, he decided he could suffer a little bit more than he was accustomed to. He felt a sad gratitude creep into his heart, as he noted that he had never been this warm in the last five years. He was now reminded how much his soul missed it -- the warmth and security of another person holding him close.

He would hardly think to share a bed with any other man, not because of the nature of such an act but because he dared not let anyone so close, no matter whom it was. But Wilson -- Wilson was and had always been an exception to every personal rule House kept. From the time they had spent together in their youth, both knew that each was the other's closest companion, held above all other friends. Keeping such intimacy exclusive made it all the more special, in House's opinion. And regardless of their friendship's earlier days (when their love was fiercest, as love often is in the hearts of the young), House felt that no other friend knew him quite so well as Wilson or had such a compulsive, unconditional devotion to him, which he had found in no other human being, save for his mother perhaps.

Wilson took great pains and even delighted in taking care of him. If he allowed himself to revisit the memories he had of the days surrounding his accident, he would find a discreet but significant comfort among all the hazy visions of misery. Wilson had been the most admirable friend to him then, going beyond the concern and well wishing of his other friends and instead staying with him every moment, over-seeing his medical treatment and struggling to find an ultimate solution. Even now, all these years later, Wilson still had not given up his quest of restoring House to full health, no matter how many times someone reminded him that his friend would remain in this painful state for the rest of his life.

House couldn't begin to fathom, as he lay in the soothing warmth of the bedclothes, how he could've allowed five years to pass by before reuniting with his dearest friend. He was all at once consumed with guilt for all the loneliness he must have surely caused Wilson and with a grief for his own loss and loneliness in America, while his only joy left in life had stayed across the sea here in France. He was also suddenly sure that he and Wilson should never part again, that they should remain together in relatively close locations, and he might worry and wallow over the probability of Wilson finding himself a wife, if they had not already discussed the scenario time and time again in the last few years. Wilson promised to never let House slip even a little out of place in his life and heart, regardless of whatever woman and family awaited him in the future.

"How could you think I would be so fond of a woman, however handsome, that I would neglect our friendship?" Wilson had confronted the last time they had spoken of it. "I do not mean that I should not love my future wife wholeheartedly, but a wife is one sort of companion and a friend like you is quite another. Do not mistake me for such a heartless man."

Their eyes, as they were often inclined to do, bore into each other's.

"I could never think you heartless, James," House had said. "It is your heart that renders me so undeserving of your care."

That had been almost six years ago. Good Lord, House thought. How long, how long. Too long. No wonder he had spent so much time being cold and unapproachable. He always knew it was not behavior fit for a gentleman, but his melancholy reached a point where he could not hide behind etiquette any longer. If only he had stayed with James, whose presence offered tremendous relief to his pain, both in his leg and his soul.

His eyes opened. The only light in the room was a pale lavender that fell through the window like a dream. The oil lamp had passed away, and all the shadows were friendlier here than ever they had been in his homeland solitude. He felt Wilson's gentle breaths puff against his back, the welcome pressure of his friend's brow in between his shoulder blades and the movement of Wilson's chest nudging him toward a better life, a life improved not because of more elaborate conditions but because his heart may find itself in the company of love again.

Though he did not wish to disturb his friend's long-awaited peace, he wanted to _see_ Wilson again, to make sure it was not another haunting dream. Carefully, he drew away from Wilson's hold, grasped his bad leg as he rolled over onto his other side. He felt his eyes gleam with solemnity, as he at last looked up at Wilson's boyish face and head of messy hair. House felt that he had woken from a fitful sleep that had lasted these past five years, and only now, when there was sunlight again in Wilson's presence, could he stop the dreary fever he had been suffering.

Wilson rolled onto his back, breathing audibly, and finally started to wake. He stretched like a cat, making House smile (which felt unnatural, the elder man noted), and looked over at his friend.

"Have you been awake long?"

"Not long."

"What is the time?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Wilson looked up at the ceiling and exhaled.

"Sleep well?" House asked.

"Very. I don't think I've slept so well in a while."

"I know I haven't."

Wilson didn't know whether to smile at him or frown sadly.

"Are you up for breakfast?" he asked, instead.

"Do you know of any worthwhile places that serve breakfast?"

"The bistro on the corner."

"Across the street?"

"Indeed."

They somehow made themselves presentable, wearing their top hats, and walked, arms linked, across the street to said bistro. And Wilson surprised himself with a happiness that he hadn't known he'd been missing. House felt his own mood lift; it had been too long since he had walked with Wilson like this. He almost proposed that they save breakfast for later and keep walking.

The day passed on in House's room and around tables for meals, as the two caught up on what had transpired in each of their lives since they were last together, and House did get his walk. It was the first time since Wilson left America that House had been happy to be amongst the busy life of a city, the other people walking and the buggies rolling along noisily in the streets. A few of the French even smiled at House, as he and Wilson strolled arm in arm. Perhaps it was because of House's leg -- or perhaps it was because he was smiling himself.

Wilson savored every minute with House, only vaguely remembering that he had promised his lady the night. After so long a time where only she could make him feel light, this old and new sensation of -- dare he call it -- bliss, in House's company, made him feel vibrant. The simple gesture of linking arms restored a sense of such utter intimacy, he marveled at it as if it were new.

Later on, they found it was already time for supper, and Wilson decided that they would dine in his apartments. The buggy ride from the hotel to Wilson's building was one of pleasant smiles.

"Good Lord," House guffawed, as the wheels chattered.

"What?" said Wilson.

"Do you remember this?" House asked, holding up a handkerchief that he had pulled from his pocket. On the corner, a cursive W was stitched. Wilson smiled.

"I gave that you a long time ago," he said.

"On the day you left, I think."

"And you kept it all this time?"

"Did you expect me to do anything else?"

They sat at Wilson's dining room table in their evening attire, and it seemed the brightest night House had seen in Paris thus far. Dozens of candles were lit throughout the room and in the adjoining ones also, along with an oil lamp or two and the chandelier that hung above them. A fresh bouquet was arranged in the vase at the table's center, and House could ever so slightly smell their aroma. Wilson offered a small smile, as he settled his cloth napkin in his lap, and two servants readily appeared with bowls of soup.

"Onion and potato, sir," said the one serving Wilson. House couldn't remember ever enjoying food so much in quite some time. The soup was followed by a partridge hors d'oeuvre and a main entrée of rabbit roast, along with a light salad and cranberry tart. They ate quietly, House enjoying everything and Wilson simply waiting as long as he could before letting House know that he would not be following him straight back to _L'Oeil Rouge _tonight. But as their cranberry tarts began to turn into crumbs and stick smears of red and House finished off what must've been his fifth glass of champagne, Wilson figured he couldn't wait any longer.

"I have an appointment tonight," he said cautiously.

"An appointment?" House echoed.

"Just something to be taken care of."

House pressed no further. He didn't have the energy, and he's realized that five years of his friend's absence has made him unfamiliar with the necessity to know everything about Wilson. He drank his champagne in brooding silence.

Once the last of their plates were taken away, they rose from the table and made for the door, nodding to the maids and thanking them for the service. Wilson called down a buggy in a few minutes and helped House in, telling the driver to go back to the hotel. The streets were wet again, the rain having come and gone while the doctors had dined. They spoke little during the ride, each looking out their respective window into the dark night. House was pleasantly intoxicated, and Wilson was anxious for contradicting reasons.

When they arrived, smoke faintly spewed from the door, and Wilson only got so far as to help House out of the buggy, before House told him to go.

"You don't need help getting upstairs?" Wilson asked. House waved him away.

"I'm fine, Wilson. Don't be late to your engagement."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite."

Wilson looked at him in surrender, a little unsure.

"Well, all right then. Good night."

"Good night."

Wilson climbed back into the buggy and shut the door, as House turned away and made for his own door. Wilson sighed, as the driver asked where to go. House only just heard the wheels rumbling away, as the hotel door shut behind him, and he found himself coughing from all the smoke in the whore-ridden lobby. The women and their drunken clients laughed aloud and grunted and groaned, as he stumbled toward the stairs, shielding his face. He almost wanted to stay at the bottom of the staircase for the rest of the night, sleeping disgracefully on the damp carpet like a drunkard, rather than suffer the task of climbing all the way back up to the third floor.

But he couldn't. He couldn't fall asleep here, so near to the whores and the drunks who threw their money away to them, who were all so much happier than he was. He couldn't fall asleep here in the smoke; he might drown. And he could never let Wilson find him in such a distressing position as that.

So with a sigh of resignation, he gripped the banister and looked up into the cleaner space, pulling his good leg up first.

* * *

When Wilson entered her apartment, its atmosphere was quite different from what it had been the night before. Instead of the oil lamps burning, candles dotted the rooms with light, and it smelled as if someone had sprayed out an entire bottle of perfume. To his surprise, Soleil laid strewn out on one of her couches, unmoving and seductive. She smiled at him, her shoulder exposed and the ruffles of her gown spilling everywhere, like an ocean formed from her waist. She had chosen to leave her neck bare, the olive skin even more tempting without any pearls or -- God help her, _diamonds_ -- to adorn them.

He stood smitten anew, his mind suddenly a slush of incoherence.

"James," she purred. "I've been waiting."

"I -- I'm sorry to not have come sooner."

"Oh, make no fuss. I know your friend needs to be looked after."

He swallowed. "Yes. Yes, he does."

"And -- you love him?" she asked, slowly rising to her feet, the candle light soft on her right cheek. He stared at her, struggling for words. He had never confided in anyone about such personal details concerning his friendship with House. But this was Soleil -- and he could keep nothing from her, if she asked to know.

"Yes," he said, the open admittance rendering him vulnerable. "I love him."

"Much?" she flirted. He gulped again and gave a slight nod. "How much?"

He was starting to feel invaded, trapped. He searched the floor, his pupils large in the near-darkness. He didn't want to give away the secrets of his and House's love. Its privacy was part of what made it so special.

"Never mind," she said, as he hesitated. "You are here now. It should be about us."

She was right in front of him now, leaning in to kiss him, and all he could do was smell her and wrap his arms around her waist. She was so beautiful, so intoxicating; he couldn't believe she loved him, of all men. It must be a mistake. She must be meant for some Frenchman far more exciting than he. This must be a dream he just can't wake up from. It must be. But instead of telling her so, he kisses her and lets her kiss him, until he has no idea who is kissing whom. He is almost completely lost in this, in this moment, being here with her. But the tiniest sensation of magnetism pulls at his heart, pulling toward the door and east, to where House is.

House. House is all alone. He should never be alone. He's been alone for the past five years. He's in pain, and he's probably drinking too much laudanum and red wine. He came all this way just to see Wilson. House. Wilson needs to go back to House, needs to stay with House forever, needs to take back their glorious friendship and hold on with all his might.

But -- Soleil. Oh, Soleil…. The most beautiful woman in the world, to Wilson. The only one who has made Paris worthwhile all this time, while House was across the sea. He is in love with her, so in love -- even if he never tells her, even if they're only supposed to be lovers for as long as he's a bachelor.

She is not his wife. She can never be his wife. She is a lorette, _his_ lorette. Their relationship is only supposed to be one of passion and pleasure, not love. God help them if there was ever love. But there is -- in Wilson's heart. He believes with his whole soul that if he could just have her and House with him for all time, he would never want for anything again. He would be the happiest man ever to walk the earth.

"James," she whispers, breaking away from his lips. "James, I need you tonight. You promised me."

"Yes," he almost whimpered. "Yes, and you shall have it. You shall have everything, everything I could ever give."

She pulls him, he pushes, she stumbles back onto the couch, and he kisses her again. His hands are in her hair, his lips travel down her neck, and she's arching with her eyes closed. He struggles with the strings at the back of her corset and then with his trousers, and she is helpless this time, her arms latched around him. He kisses her mouth, worships it with his tongue, trying to make up for the poetry he can't write. The corset lays undone on the rug, and her breast emerges easily from the loose bodice of her dress. He thinks it's so perfect, she should be painted like this. He loves her, he loves her, he loves. Oh, how he loves her.

"James," she groans, as he fondles her with his lips. And he wants to say that he loves her. He wants to tell her. He wants to murmur about running away, taking her to America or the Caribbean, and marrying her. He wants to go crazy. She always makes him crazy, strips him of his doctor's practicality, streaks his mind with madness and love and desire.

But now he thinks fleetingly of House -- cooped up in his hotel room with nothing to do and no one to talk to, waiting for him to return for dinner or for anything. He thinks of House braving the flights of stairs like a fool, all the pain he must feel, all the loneliness he must be drowning in. He's an American in Paris, with no way to move about freely, no company save for Wilson. He's too easily saddened, though he won't admit it. He suffered to come from the States, for God's sake. And now? He was alone in his room because Wilson had left him.

Yet he makes no move to leave, to choose House over this woman he's kissing. He feels the most urgent pull in his heart to go to the door, but he stays. He stays with her.

* * *

House has finished off the 2nd bottle of laudanum he's used since leaving America, and he only managed to take off his coat and vest. He sank onto the bed in his shirt and trousers, not giving a damn, and he knew before he even picked it up that he was never going to read anything of the book now on his stomach. His mind is muddled -- a familiar feeling -- and he wishes he could call on someone to bring him some wine or brandy.

He didn't understand. He was in Paris. He was with Wilson again. He shouldn't be miserable. He shouldn't feel this way. He didn't know why he did. All he knew is that he was too lost in it now to do anything except pass out into another restless sleep. He let the empty bottle slip down onto the floor, and the cap rolled across the room, disappearing into the shadows. He almost wished he had given up in the lobby after all, paid one of the whores for her services or simply asked for a cigarette. He knew it was all wrong. He knew it made no sense. He didn't condone prostitution, a majority of the time, and as a doctor, he knew few things could be unhealthier. He also had never really smoked a cigarette before, and he didn't want to start just for the sake of smoking itself. All he wants is a distraction, a way to snap himself out of this melancholy that he can't explain. It is in this moment that he remembered he must've come to Paris for a purpose, other than seeing Wilson again. He must have something to say…. But he drifted away before recalling.

* * *

"House!" Wilson exclaimed, bursting into the room racked with guilt that it was already two o'clock in the morning. He had no chance to offer a defense. House lay in bed, asleep and clothed, book collapsed on his stomach. The oil lamp glowed, and Wilson sighed, shutting the door behind him. He shed his coat and felt his guilt twist him again.

"House," he murmured. "Forgive me. I've been so selfish."

But his friend slept on obliviously, no doubt heavily drugged and maybe even drunk, for he looked the picture of peace. Wilson stepped out of his shoes, blew out the lamp, and slunk next to the sleeping man. Resting his head snugly against House's shoulder, he slid his arm over House's chest and shut his eyes, never having been so remorseful in many years.

Soleil had made him feel burning and then content exhaustion. She overwhelmed him, left him crazy and hungry and impassioned. But House -- House made him feel as if everything were right, just sleeping with him like this. With House, Wilson felt secure and warm, in such a soft and gentle way that was the total opposite of the almost unbearable heat Soleil inspired in him. With House, everything was calm and certain. Wilson was beginning to consider which situation felt better.


End file.
